musings from Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington ... home of The Write Spot

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Guest Post: a day in Venice...

One of the Big Things on my
ever-growing retirement wish list is travel. Faraway places beckon: Cornwall,
Paris, Maui... So many choices! No doubt I'll eventually drag myself out of the wishful/dreaming
stage and take off. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying my 'staycation' while feeding my wanderlust with the
photos and journals of traveling friends. Here's Ian McCallum's tale of a day
spent walking through Venice. Enjoy!

* * *

It is
morning, a bright, sunny, cloudless morning. I take the bus from my hotel in
Mestre to the bus terminal in Venice. Venice, ancient city of wood, brick and
stone, Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, and Byzantine styles, and there before
me, a bridge, a bridge to the train station, a bridge by... Calatrava. Santiago Calatrava. A modern master! A clean curving arch of bronze, marble, glass and
steel, its structure like a spine, metal intertwined, almost organic.

I cross.

I walk
along the Grand Canal, its ancient stone borders wearing away from the waves
produced by the constant traffic.

The Grand Canal, loud, crowded, a mass of
Gondolas, water taxis, boats of all descriptions, horns, bells, birds, a
cacophony of sound reflecting off the centuries old structures. The path ends.
I walk through the side streets. Stone paving, sometimes modern interlock,
sometimes granite, worn, no longer even. The Doges walked these streets for
over a thousand years. I have yet to see a street that runs straight for more
than a few hundred feet. They twist, they turn, there is a maze of side
passages, thoroughfares that may be twenty feet wide and lined with shops, to
passages that are barely wide enough for two to pass. Sometimes they end, at a
wall, at a canal, I must retrace my steps.

I turn a corner, a piazza, at the
end, a church, crumbling, the limestone and marble details blurred, sometimes
indiscernible, I enter, there are carved marble columns in every style
imaginable, in every colour, in every variety. The walls, the ceilings covered
in frescoes, icons, statuary, relics everywhere. I go on.

I walk along a narrow passage, at the end stairs, rising to the left, at an angle, straight ahead, a wall. I climb the stairs, over a canal, and down the other side to another alley, they do not line up, the stairs connect the ancient passageways. Another
corner, the Rialto Bridge. The oldest bridge over the canal. First built of
wood in 1181 it was reconstructed over the years. The present bridge, stone,
built in 1591 has a central pediment at the peak of the arch, two lines of shops
with a central passageway, and passageways on either side. I pause for the
obligatory pictures.

Continuing
on, more twists, more turns. Churches, monuments, homes, shops, never knowing
what is around the next corner, the next bend. Sometimes a vista across the
Grand Canal bathed in sunlight, the temperature in the 30s (90s), sometimes in a
narrow passageway, cool, damp, encased by decaying brick, the only light from
the clear blue sky glimpsed above the walls 3, 4, 5 stories tall.

Church
bells.

Close by.

In the distance.

It is
Sunday.

Everywhere,
church bells.

Another
turn, a tree filled park, birds chirping, once again alongside the Grand Canal.
It is bordered by a large building and beyond, rising over the rooftops, the
Campanile, icon of Piazza San Marco. At the entrance to the Square, two
columns, in honour of St Mark and St Theodoro, patrons of the city. To the
right The Doges Palace, beyond, St Mark's Basilica, straight ahead The Clock
Tower. the square is a seething mass of humanity... and pigeons! I walk beyond
the clock tower. A somewhat narrow street, lined with shops, rays of sunlight
descend from above. In the distance, singing, chanting. A religious group
walking through the streets. I move on.

I walk. I
walk through more narrow corridors. Past more churches. Through many squares. I
walk along a sun drenched street. It is interrupted by a canal. A narrow canal.
Sunlit. Gondolas. Gondoliers singing, accompanied by accordions.

I am
walking alongside a canal. Three, four story buildings line the street. In one,
a passageway. Outstretched arms can almost touch the walls. Raised hand can
almost touch the ceiling. The walls dark, damp brick. Embedded in one wall two
columns, a beam. Wood. Rough. Lightly dusted with the white hairs of fungi. On
the wall a sign… The Gheto.

The Ghetto?

I discover
that 'gheto' is a Venetian word adopted into English.

I walk in.

Narrow
passageway.

Long,
narrow passageway.

It opens to
a small square.

On one
side, a Synagogue. On the opposite side another. The other sides are residential
buildings. Tall buildings. Many floors. The ceiling heights are lower than
most. A lot of humanity in little space. There is a memorial on one Synagogue
wall. I continue on. A larger square. Sunlit. Open. A tree in the centre. On
the far side wall I see bronze plaques. The wall is brick, old brick, there are
doors, they are steel, old steel, heavy steel. On top of the wall, wire, rows
of wire, barbed wire.

The plaques? A memorial. To the holocaust, to the memory
of those who were sent out from The Ghetto. In the square, near the memorial, a
large booth, a manned booth, by the police, 24/7, because... in this day and
age... they are needed... to protect those who live, those who live in The
Ghetto.